


master debating lessons

by sharkie



Series: the filth city [5]
Category: Fallen London | Echo Bazaar
Genre: F/M, M/M, Orgasm Denial, Other, POV Third Person, the jovial domtrarian
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-08
Updated: 2019-09-08
Packaged: 2020-10-12 12:29:05
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 471
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20564351
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sharkie/pseuds/sharkie
Summary: He's delighted to spend the occasional afternoon tutoring you. Your rhetoric is now legendary in both polite andimpolitecircles.





	master debating lessons

“You’re coming,” says the Contrarian, matter-of-factly.  
  
You _would_ be, if he’d hurry up. Or if he’d let you lower your hands to attend to _somebody_. Anybody. His cockstand bobs within your field of vision, but he continues to ignore it, as he has ignored it for the past half-hour. His focus would be admirable if only it wasn’t so irritating.  
  
“Look at this filth!” He thrusts his palm in front of your face. “What do you call this, then? It sounds like come. It smells like come. It tastes like come. Therefore -” It doesn’t! “Oh?” The Contrarian slips a finger between your lips, then shoves in a second. “Provide a better word to describe it and I might consider believing you.”  
  
It is, admittedly, a challenge. You try to distract him by hollowing your cheeks and sucking noisily. His eyes glaze over, but he doesn’t relent, pistoning his fingers like he’s fucking your mouth.  
  
_Me_, you declare with a gasp, breaking off with only the slightest scrape of your teeth. The scent and taste is _you_. Specifically, your lust. Your _need_. Now fuck off.  
  
“Why didn’t you just say so?” he complains, beaming. His thumb gathers more of your wetness without granting the pressure you require. “Moans don’t count as an argument. Otherwise, you’d be winning by now.”  
  
You throb. You burn. His touch skims your stomach in a mockery of comfort. “Poor thing. You’re desperate for crisis, aren’t you?” Once, he’d advised you never to answer ‘yes’ or ‘no’ questions without elaboration. You tell him that you wish to thrash in his arms, helpless; you wish to wail; you wish to feel copious come drip down your thighs and dirty the bench beneath you until you're breathless and quivering from oversensitivity.  
  
“Good God,” the Contrarian mutters. He finally wraps a hand around his cockstand, shuddering at the contact and grinning at your groan. The pace he sets for himself would be more than enough to set you off. His free hand pins your wrists above your head, and you forsake all sense of reason for primal desire. You wheedle, no, _beg_ to touch him. He laughs hoarsely. White splatters through his fist and over his tightened knuckles. Somehow, neither of his grips falter, even as orgasmic euphoria inspires him to ramble about rats’ role in government.  
  
The exact details of his diatribe are lost in the ringing in your ears. He watches your face with fondness bordering on pity. You can’t help but whimper as he pushes his slick fingers inside you and slowly frigs you with his come for a good, terrible minute. When your thighs begin quaking again, he withdraws in one cruel motion, and you clench involuntarily, unable to finish yourself nor hold in his seed.  
  
“You forgot to specify whose come.” He smiles. “Maybe next week.”


End file.
